Steady Heart, Unsafe Mind
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: Part Native American Alfred F. Jones is thrown into a Mental Asylum in this one-shot. Here he meets the brain-dead Ivan, Arthur Kirkland who still thinks there's a World War going on, and several other interesting characters.


**Steady Heart, Unsafe Mind**

Sometimes, in the dead of night, he could still hear the sirens blaring.

Arthur Kirkland lives in a little cell, tucked away in the labyrinth of a Mental Asylum, or institution, whatever word you so pleased. At night, he lays awake, eyes wide, and trembling in anticipation. As the darker portion of the night creeps forwards his is engulfed by the blazing sounds of alarms, with air raids trialing close behind. He stands up and screams in horror, seeking a shelter he knows is there. Of course, it is not, but he is so consumed by the existence of it that he wakes he nurses and his inmates, pleading, begging with a snot-faced grimace to be released.

"I don't want them to get me! No, I'm a right good soldier, you know I am!"

But night fell away and he fell asleep, strapped into his bed. In the morning he remembers nothing of the night before and continues on with his life, still checking over his back and groping in his pockets for his gun that doesn't exist anymore.

In the morning, before breakfast, it's time for pills.

He sits in the lounge, rubbing his knees and lost in thought. Around him the other patients wait for the nurses as well. No one chooses to make eye-contact with each other. The time for that is no long over. Arthur's a stocky, short British man who, when doubled over in his seat, appeared like a docile little squirrel or rabbit. His mop of sandy hair stood in every which-a-way and refused to stay down, no matter the occasion. His eyes, glittering and a passionate emerald, swing from man to man in the room, scouring for any hint that would give them away as a spy. He never finds that hint and turns back away, resumes rubbing his knees as though they pained him.

Sitting next to him in a wheel-chair, the man casually glances up at the clock. It hung on the wall in a square shape. The hands moved noiselessly around, counting off the seconds, minutes, and hours. It's nearly six thirty. The man looks away, fingering the edge of his seat. His name is Ivan Braginsky and he never spoke. One time they dragged him away into the electric chair and burned his brains out, making him mute but not completely dim-witted, though he didn't appear to listen either. His hair is choppily cut, hanging in silver squares over his dark, brooding eyes. His strong set jaw twitches every once in a while, his thick lips pucker and then relax. He is not friends with Arthur but Arthur is quiet and easy enough to sit next to.

The minute hand strikes six and the doors slide open. The nurses, three in all, sweep in. They all push metallic carts. Needles balance precariously on them, jittering and clattering. _Chik-chik-chik-chik…_

The nurses are not at all alike. One is short, stubborn, and red-faced. She does her job proficiently without a comment, jabbing needles in and stuffing pills down throats. Her brown hair is tightly pulled back, exposing her round face and pudgy lips. She moves slowly but with deliberately loud steps. Her name is Miss Mayberry.

Miss Mayberry casts a sharp glance at one of her cohorts, Miss Manson. Miss Manson is the sweetest of the bunch, being a petit, rosy-cheeked girl with a high-pitched voice.

Not that it matters to the patients. All the nurses are one in the same, mindless robots following a program running along the walls of the building. Miss Manson approaches Ivan, picking up a plastic cup of clear liquid.

"Now, Mr. Braginsky, it's time to take your medicine. This will help make the pain go away." Her lips pucker up. Ivan regards her coolly, as though not understanding a word. His eyes land on the cup and he parts his lips with effort. She pours it down his throat with a lilting little giggle attached to the end. "Aren't you a good boy!" she chimes and then goes on with her business.

The third nurse, and the nurse that tends to Arthur, is a tall, severe-faced woman. Her name is Mrs. Marble and she stands like a school teacher; straight-backed and cold. She bent over Arthur and held out pills in her withered hand. She had been widowed thirteen years before by a man who ended up drunk and out on a field, caught by a train as it rattled on past. This was not the cause of her strict personality, however.

Arthur looked down at the pills with squinted eyes. "What are these for?" he asks.

"They are for you to get better, Kirkland, now do take them." She picks on up with manicured red nails and holds it before Arthur's chapped lips.

Arthur scowls and recoils. "Well what are they for, exactly? My stomach? You know my digestive system has been working very well. What's more my head does not hurt, surprise with such a war going on!" As he starts to chuckle at his own ingenuity, she pushes them into his mouth. He swallows them dry, his scowl lengthening.

This is their routine: wake-up, bathroom, medicine, breakfast, "free-time", lunch, therapeutic meeting, "free-time", dinner, bathroom, sleep.

It only changes when there is a newcomer, as like today.

Arthur stands once the bitter taste of medicine finally vanishes, and follows the rest of the group into the cafeteria. Someone wheels Ivan there, not far behind Arthur.

The cafeteria hosts all the patients even though it's small and cramped, with several long tables lined up parallel to each other. The reason that it can support all those patients with extra room to spare is that not once has it had to contain everyone all at once. Some patients, the more senile and wild of them, stay locked up in their rooms and a nurse or janitor gives them their meals. Others, the ones who can barely blink let alone eat, remain in another room altogether most of the time, unless it is "free-time".

Arthur sits towards the further back corner, mopping his egg yolks with a bit of dry toast. The food isn't half bad here, he remarks to himself for the umpteenth time, no it just gets better!

This would be his thirtieth year there. Not that he knew, of course.

Ivan sat closer to the "free-time" room, or the "lobby" with Mad Max.

Mad Max is a nick-name slung on his back from childhood. It stuck so well that no one, even those who have his documents, can recall his real name. Mad Max got this nickname for his reckless behavior that sent a little girl home from school with her ponytail tugged out. Another kid, when he was in seventh grade, cried himself hoarse because Mad Max had bit his finger off. Mad Max bit and scratched because he felt tiny and insecure. Now he wears gloves and a muzzle, like some cartoony folk. It would be funny, but it's not. No, not at all.

During breakfast he takes off the muzzle and has to have someone spoon-feed him. The reason he sits with Ivan is because of that reason. Ivan needs someone to feed him, spoonful by spoonful, since he has no action in his arms, save for the fingers, or his chest all the way down to his toes. It's a counterintuitive sort of thing that no doctor could fathom.

The one who fed them was a medical student. His hair, red and curly, fell into his eyes often. There's only one of him and he stresses trying to feed both of the men at once, but neither complain.

Mad Max is so drugged up on pills that he could hardly tell right from left, much less bite someone.

And Ivan lost himself in his own little world, eyes facing up and occasionally, once having swallowed his bite, parted his lips for another.

The rest in the cafeteria could feed themselves.

Arthur looks up from his empty plate and picks up his orange juice. Across from him, watching him carefully, is an Italian man named Lovino. He has a scar across his forehead, stitched so that it looks like a grinning mouth. His history is bleak, full of hostility and bar fights. Sometimes he gets in fights there. Someone or other insulted his Mama and he raises his fist, clobbering the speaker to a pulp and sending them to the infirmary. They chuck him into a cell until he regains some sense of peace before exposing him to the rest of the world again.

Arthur watches him curiously. When he had an idea as to what was going on outside of his mind, he had a very, very clear idea. He smiles casually at Lovino.

"Hello. The sun's shining down. Wonder if they'll let us out today?"

Lovino scoffs and looks down at his meal, eating. He chose this seat because it was the only one empty at an almost vacant table. Also, he didn't want to be alone.

His dark brown hair falls into his eyes and he brushes it away with a stubby, scarred finger. Sometimes he got letters from his brother back at home. But even family can get fed up with one another.

After breakfast the crowd floods the "lobby" again. Everyone takes up their usual positions. A few level-headed ones play games of cards or chess. Arthur takes up post at the window, as if on sentry duty. He sits alert, ready if some enemy force were to barge in.

Lovino is still "grounded" so he's not allowed to play cards or any form of competitive game, since most are afraid that he'll beat someone up.

Ivan's out from his medicine, looking up at the ceiling. He fancies that he can see men on horses riding into battle in those peculiar shapes that are a mix of the ceiling's texture and the bits of light bobbing in his vision.

Arthur perks up, seeing down below, three stories down, a slick black car pulling up to the building. "Ah, a new prisoner!" he tells himself gleefully.

The Mental Institute really takes up only the top story. The lower two are for people with back problems and dental needs. The story above is where the lab tests are done. It's a strange set up, for sure, but no one complains. It saves space and money so why not?

After an hour, the door to the "lobby" slides open. Everyone turns to face it, tensing up at the new arrival. New arrivals go through some process before being admitted in. What it is, everyone seems to have forgotten. Perhaps it was too traumatic to hold in their memory and so the best course of action was to forget it. Then again, time is of little importance. The day goes by, chopped up by the schedule, without any care as to what the month or year it is. When it snows it is winter and when it is sunny it is most likely summer. When "summer" comes by the patients scurry on outside to the garden to soak up some sunshine for a quarter of an hour, and then are gathered back in.

The newcomer is already in a yellowish suit that all of them wear, with his name printed on a tag on his chest. He stares at the group, his lips drawn into an unemotional expression. The nurse leads him in by the arm, which once must have been at the height of muscular capacity.

His brown eyes sweep through the crowd. He can tell that the room divides up into two sections: the hopeless and the helpless. One side is where the patients, the hopeless, group together. They are the kind beyond any help because they were either born that way or the doctors screwed up big time. The other side is the helpless, because even if they are on the brink of sanity they'll never be let out.

Arthur did not recall a single person ever leaving.

The newcomer chooses the side of the helpless, sitting down on one of the wicker chairs. He runs his fingers through his oily, long black hair, brushing it away from his eyes. His jaw is powerful and he is a big fellow, not as big as Ivan once was, but still of respectable size.

Arthur goes up to him, seeing as everyone else regarded the newcomer wearily.

"Come on, a soldier's got to buck up to a newcomer!" Arthur says cheerfully and sticks out his dry hand to the man.

The man gazes at him in fatigue. His nametag says Alfred F. Jones.

Timidly, he raises his hand and greets Arthur. Arthur chuckles as if Alfred's hand is the most amusing thing on the entire planet.

"Tell me, old fellow, why'd they bring you in?"

Alfred does not reply.

"Now, don't force him to speak, Arthur," Miss Mayberry says, coming closer to him. Her uniform is drawn taut over her body. "They say he has a speak impediment. Why don't you introduce him to the rest?" she gives Alfred a bone-chilling faux smile. She gives this to all newcomers, giving them an impression that she's a real nice, sweet lady. Had she kept the act up maybe she would have fooled somebody. Alfred's expression does not change as he looks at her. He isn't fooled. Miss Mayberry drops the act at once and turns away, going over to the two other cohorts. Miss Manson is giggling and watching Alfred curiously. They turn away, preparing his documents and checking up on lunch. Even if they dislike the patients, they love the machine that runs them. Everything must be kept at optimal condition for ultimate success.

One of the able patients greets Alfred.

"Hello," he says in a tiny voice. He's blind in one eye and suffers from some sort of disease that causes him to scratch at his skin and peel it off in layers. His hands are bound in cloth.

Alfred greets him with a nod.

"Well," he continues, introducing himself as Andy, "I thought I'd let you know about this colorful cast of people we have here…"

"Now hold up Andy, dontcha think that the meeting today will give him a real nice impression of us?" Another one scoffs. He licks his lips, grinning foully.

"The nurses won't say that much about us. How 'bout we just get him acquainted with them?" Andy nods over to the patients across the room. They all cower, as though this new specimen will eat them alive. Alfred does not look at them, however. "The nurses aren't going to talk about someone who can hardly respond back."

"They can do it for their sick pleasure," a third voice chimes in. "You know how they are. They wanted to work down on the l-lower levels, as a n-n-nice nurse who worked with normal p-p-people, so they t-t-take out their r-revenge out on us."

"Shut up," the one whose hands are bound interrupts, "don't you realize they are listening?" He scuffs the stutterer across the shoulder.

The stutterer looks away morosely, grumbling.

They continue to debate on what to tell Alfred and by the time they come to a consensus, they are being called to lunch. Alfred stands, hitching his thumbs in his pockets. He follows the others as they file in.

Alfred chooses the table where Arthur and Lovino sit. He regards them without contempt. Lovino grits his teeth, clutching the plastic spoon. For some reason he is overcome with an omnipotent rage. He breaks the spoon in half, then those halves in half, and so on till he has a pile of plastic chips. He yells suddenly, a gut-wrenching scream, and flings his tray across the table. It smacks one of the patients. Still huffing and cursing, Lovino continues to seek a way to exhort his anger. It bubbles up to the surface, boiling over and coming out as steam. His cheeks redden and the scar along his forehead stands out in even greater contrast. He curls his upper lips forwards and three workers rush up behind him, seizing him by the arms and dragging him away. He continues to scream.

"YOU DON'T GET IT! I AM NOT BROKEN! I AM WHOLE I AM COMPLETE! MY BROTHER WILL CRY AT THE TORMENT!" his nonsense continues until a nurse sticks a needle in his arm, sending poison running through his veins. It slows down his brain and he ends up by blithering nonsensical words. His eyelids droop and his eyes become foggy, as though milk had been poured in them.

Alfred watches the scene with growing fear. When he arrived he hadn't felt the least bit of horror, not until this point where he knew he was in a heaping pile of trouble.

Arthur clicks his tongue. "I had a feeling Lovino would burst at one point or another. Alfred, don't worry about it. It's not because of you. In the wartime it's hard to keep one's head. I wouldn't be surprised if you went barking mad."

After lunch they go to the meeting. They align the chairs in a circle, leaving spaces for the wheel-chairs, and collect there. The nurses sit at the head of the chair, like the jewel on the top of the ring. Alfred sits by Ivan, who had risen from his drug-induced reverie long enough to make sense of his surroundings. He and Alfred are both silent as stones.

The nurses smile coldly at each individual in the room and Miss Mayberry clears her throat, starting in a strong voice.

"I will repeat this for the sake of the newcomer. This is a newly developed technique in rehabilitation. This takes a social approach to the mental dilemmas and helps us understand one another better. Here you must not be afraid to be open and honest. We believe that this method works better than medication. But it will only work if you help along." She drawls this as though she would much rather by brushing an alligator's teeth.

Miss Manson picks up in a cheery voice. "Alright, let's start with Mr. Andy Patten! Now," she pauses, rifling through several documents.

She goes through a hefty stack before finding his document, which had found its way towards the end. Picking it up, she gently places it on the front as though a single scratch could deter its usage. "Mr. Andy, you are here because your teeth just can't get enough of your skin! If I recall correctly: once your mother described an incident where you lost almost all your skin on one finger. Lucky she caught you just in time, huh?" she giggles and looks towards him with a more serious expression. "Now, do you think you could pinpoint the source of your problem?"

Andy licks his top teeth, his lips moving in thought. He can't stop thinking about how her eyes are just a bit too far apart. "I don't know." He admits quietly.

"You don't know?" Mrs. Marble parrots, jotting something down in a notebook.

"Yes, I don't know," he mutters again, "All I know is that ever since I was little there was a great joy in biting. It started off as me biting my nails and all, so…"

Andy is one of the more compliant patients. Most refuse to go on but he, seeing as the best way to get through life is not to argue, simply agrees with anything that is said to him. Being obedient thus far has proven useful, so he figures that he should continue on with this life style.

When he finishes, Miss Manson happily claps her hand.

"Bravo! I'm so proud of you for admitting all those feelings! It must have taken a whole lot of strength! Now, Ivan Braginsky…" she starts to go through the papers but Miss Mayberry shakes her head.

"You know he's dumb. Speaking to him will change nothing. Let's go on to Arthur Kirkland."

Arthur blinks in surprise, pointing to himself.

"Yes, you," Miss Mayberry drones.

"Okay, found it!" Miss Manson giggles again, "Now, Mr. Arthur, you believe that you are still in some World War, is this correct?"

"You say believe I say I am." Arthur protests.

"So you are. And you were tossed out of the house by your brothers, hm?"

"Bloody useless they are. They told me they were sending me to camp, back to war just like the good old days… Ah what happened then…?" he mists over, his face puckers in concentration. He snaps out of it quickly, his eyes clearing. "No matter! Well they chuck me in the loony bin and what I get out of it is sleepless nights and a guilty conscience for not fighting in the war for my country."

Alfred would soon learn, from some other patient's hushed talking, that Arthur suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD. He served his country for several years and suffered such terrors and sorrows that his mind frizzled out.

His brothers, who knew not what to do with him, put him in the asylum out of affection. He began raving about it still being World War Two. At nights he still heard the sirens blaring.

Sometimes, when he drifts off into a reverie during the day-time, he recalls grim snapshots of the war. They drift to the forefront of his mind, slithering through the walls he had built around them, and reminding him of the days of war. He saw severed limbs and bloodied faces. This terrifies him and he screams himself hoarse.

The patients would be sitting in their "lobby" as usual, shuffling cards and talking lowly, when suddenly Arthur's head would jerk up. His lip would quibble and suddenly a blood-curdling scream would rip through him. He covers his face and writhes on the ground, screaming bloody murder and begging for it all to stop. Nurses rush over, inject their poison into him like a snake biting into prey, and drag him away to safety.

When he returns he has no recollection of what had just happened.

Once Miss Manson had finished with Arthur, she turns to Alfred. Her pretty lips pop up into a cute smile, dimples showing. "Now, Mr. Jones, we'll go nice and easy on you. Just make sure you pay real close attention to our questions. If you feel uncomfortable you can abstain from speaking, for now, okay?"

Alfred nods.

"Good, good!" she chirps, reading his documents. "You are a part Native American, on the mother's side, twenty one year old man. You come here for several incidents of insanity and great distrust of those around you. Is this true?"

He nods again.

"Now, what do you recall of these moments, if anything at all?"

No one expects him to speak. That's why, when he does, they twitch visibly in surprise.

"I don't recall anything. All I know is that everyone around me is wrong and bad and evil so I have to get rid of them." Alfred says. His voice is dark and brooding, but is tinged with a dry, sweet accent. Miss Manson elevates her brows.

"I see… Have you hurt anyone? It says here that you nearly killed two people and severely injured a child."

"I don't remember hurting anyone, miss."

The meeting goes on for an hour longer. Mrs. Marble squirms in her seat, antsy to get out of there. The patients are in similar dispositions. One began to play with a length of string, wrapping it around his finger until it turns purple.

"Alright, it's three o'clock, time for you all to return the seats. We will continue this tomorrow." Miss Mayberry says, checking the clock.

The chairs scrape against the floors and order is restored. As if nothing happened, they resume their games and chatting.

Free-time ends and everyone returns to their cells. Alfred goes into his one-bed cell, the size of a bathroom, and falls asleep instantly.

He dreams of the open road. His steering wheel is hot from the sunshine under his palms. The road unfurls before him, dusty and red. Not a cloud litters the sky. The world is at total peace and he could ask for no more. He has no destination, but he doesn't need one. All he needs is a full tank, a few snacks, and the breeze racing up against the windows where he sticks on hand out occasionally.

Abruptly a sound wakes him up. He sits up and looks around frantically, heart racing. His vision slips in and out of focus. Someone is screaming about an air-raid. He can barely tell that it is Arthur's, for it is distorted by horror and tears.

Later it ends and he can sleep peacefully, but only for another hour or so.

The weeks drag by, but they feel like moments. They feel like moments that stretch on to infinity. The days blur together and become one long moment, cut up by darkness and light, and no time is spent or lost. Alfred already forgets about his job back home.

In the "lobby", Alfred enjoys to learn about the patients. Those who scream make him dizzy and weary, so he stays away from them. Ivan is quiet, so he chose to speak with him. Ivan did not respond.

One of the other patients, one who murdered his wife with a pencil, sneers at Alfred.

"He ain't gonna speak, if that's whatcher hopin' for him to do."

Alfred asks him what happened to Ivan.

The killer explains that Ivan had come in absolutely nuts. "Barking mad, as that Brit would say, and he was a real hassle. He screamed and gambled and tried to eat his own arm once. Then they put him in the electric chair and fried his brains."

"Why was he in here in the first place? I mean, what made him go so insane?" Alfred questions.

The other shrugs. Ivan does not appear to notice their existence, staring across the room at something distant and not at all there. The poison eats through his body, chewing up every last bit of sanity he ever had, swallowing it whole. He's a corpse with a very slight idea of what happens around him, even less than Arthur. He is convinced that he had been plugged into a machine and was being worked through it slowly, running on a conveyor belt. Only his fingers move and they twitch, dig, and sometimes tense up.

"Who knows? Rumor has it that he killed people by the hundreds, worse than me. He didn't do it out of choice. I think that he thought he just had to do it, or else the world would be thrown off balance if he did. He didn't seem to enjoy it. See Richard over there? Yeah, this is his third time in. They released him twice only to have him crawl back with another bout of insanity stamped on his back. Now they won't ever let him go again, I tell ya." He directs Alfred's attention towards a gloomy looking man playing cards. "Well, as I was saying, he had a nice lil' chit chat with Ivan before he left for the second time. He thought he had nothin' to lose so they chatted. Apparently Ivan told 'im that if he hadn't killed all those people the world would end or something. It took me ages to weasel that info out of him, but I got it eventually."

Alfred thanks the killer for the information.

"No problem, man," he says and turns away.

Alfred regrets labeling him as "the killer". That man has lots of personality, as he learns later on. He's loud, boisterous, and at night sits and cries for his lost wife.

Alfred, for the most part, is calm and unmovable. Only loud sounds, like Arthur's screams or Lovino's yells or something dropping on the floor sends him into a daze. Fog clouds up his vision and he feels pain thunder in his head. All other sounds become whispers, like breezes, and he feels his arms move. A needle pierces his skin and next thing he knows he's waking up in his cell. When he feels ready to tackle the day again he slips out of his room, shuffling past a cell with the door sealed tight. Each time he looks at it he is consumed by curiosity. What lies behind that door that makes strange scuffling noises and garbled gibberish?

At one point in autumn, Alfred asks Andy what's behind there.

Andy looks at him strangely. "Well I actually don't know. It's been shut tight ever since I came. Arthur's been here the longest, so I suggest you ask him."

Alfred does just so.

Arthur stops jittering on the chair and faces him. Lines of old age have begun to crop up along his mouth and eyes. A line appears between his brows.

"Let's see, door 208? Oh, yes, a few days after I came here they brought in that man." He nods. When he said "days" he truly meant "years". As far as he knew, it has only been three months since he came to the asylum.

Arthur stands and gestures for Alfred to follow. He leads him to the front of the door. The sounds behind it have stopped, replaced by asthmatic breathing.

"The patient is Kiku Honda." Arthur explains, brazenly pushing open the door. "He never comes out. They tried once to bring him out for meals but he threw such a terrific fit that no one ever bothered to do it again. All he does is paint in there. He used to get all sorts of supplies from his brother a while ago, but I suppose he gave up. I don't know what he does now."

Well, now he knew.

In the gloom of the cell, the man named Kiku Honda crouched on the walls. His arms wrapped around his knees and his dark hair, in tangles, spill down. His thin shoulders shift beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. His breathing continues at the unusual rate. Stacks of paintings pile up along the walls. Loose papers are scattered around the floor. They are beautiful paintings, Alfred sees. A naked bulb hangs from the ceiling, illuminating them.

Most of the paintings depict humans. Some showed wide-open eyes, others show a sleeping woman in a floral dress. A good amount show trees in all times of the year.

Paint brushes litter the floor, paint smearing the ground and Kiku's shirt. His head is still ducked, unbothered by the opened door. His breathing hitches, but other than that he doesn't seem to notice the strangers' presence.

The walls are drawn on. Every inch of the white space is consumed by painting. A long, unending scene with smaller scenes embedded in them. A bride crosses a flowing, glittering river. Leaves float on its surface, flowing off into infinity. Three moons and two suns hang in the air above them.

A woman with three arms stands on one wall, her eyes staring directly at Alfred. His eyes begin to fade, as though a layer of film is coming over them.

Kiku then looks up, his eyes glittering devilishly. His lips are parted and moist, gasping for air. His chest now heaves more heavily. Alfred feels sick. The room is spinning. The pictures are blending together, all staring him down.

"Are you alright?" Someone asks in a slow, weird voice that seems backwards. Arthur drops down beside him and reaches over to touch Alfred's shoulder but he jerks away, grunting. He clutches his head, bending forwards and groaning.

Heels click in the distance. Darkness swirls down to greet Alfred.

When he wakes up he is strapped to a bed. His wrists are tied down and his forehead is connected to the table by a strip of leather. His arm throbs. Everything is going slow, too slowly…

He thinks of Arthur and how he spoke to him. When he spoke of Kiku, of the past, a clarity came into his face. In that moment he knew everything that was happening.

What if we were normal? He thinks, closing his eyes. He can still hear Kiku's broken breaths echo in his ears. What if we could interact with the world?

What if we didn't have to fight our own minds?

* * *

_I do not own Hetalia_

_This was inspired by Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_

_I have no ulterior motive for making Alfred half Native American. I just really felt like it._

_Hope you enjoyed!_


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